The Hook Up
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Set in Season 3: House and Cuddy hook up at a bar. (I'd be more specific with this description, but that would RUIN EVERYTHING).
1. Chapter 1

The Hook-Up

House was sitting at his favorite bar stool in his favorite bar drinking his favorite brand of scotch when a rather cheery group of revelers came through the front door and sat down at a nearby table.

"Crap," House said, hunching a bit, as though changing his posture was somehow going to disguise him.

The bartender, Dex, chuckled.

"I take it you know those folks?" he asked.

"I work with them," House said.

Dex looked again.

"You work with those gorgeous women? Lucky bastard."

House shrugged, but didn't reply.

"So why not go join them?" Dex said.

"I just told you I work with them. Why would I want to socialize with them, too?"

"Happy hour with coworkers is a pretty time-honored tradition," Dex chuckled. "Or so I've heard."

"Look," House said. "See that guy?"—he gestured to Foreman. "He's just going to want to talk shop all night until my eyes glaze over. See the prom queen there?"—Cameron. "She's going to laugh too hard at all my jokes and try to touch me every chance she can get."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Dex countered.

"Trust me, it gets old. And see surfer brah?"—Chase. "He's just going to sulk because the prom queen is paying more attention to me than to him."

"What about hot-for-teacher there?" Dex said, pointing at Cuddy.

House grinned, slightly lasciviously.

"That ravishing creature is my boss."

"Ahhh," Dex said, getting it. "Probably wise to stay away."

"Exactly."

He sighed, took another swig of his drink.

"Incoming, 3 o clock," Dex said.

It was Cameron, of course, who had spotted him and was sauntering over.

"Hey," Dex said, flirtatiously.

"Hi," she said back, half-heartedly. Then she turned to House: "You know that we can see you, right?"

"I was just about to send over a round a drinks," he said.

"Liar," she said, touching his arm. (House raised his eyebrows at Dex in a "told ya so" sort of way.)

"What are you all doing here anyway?" House said. "Is this going to be a regular thing? If so, I'm going to have to switch bars."

She giggled. (Another wagged eyebrow.)

"We're celebrating that Foreman got an article published in the Journal of American Neurology," she said.

"Pfft, like that's some sort of big deal," House scoffed.

"You should join us," Cameron said.

"I would but. . .drinking with other people is a sign of alcoholism."

"You're really going to sit here 20 feet from us and not come over?" she said.

"That was the plan," House said.

"Scrooge," she said.

"I've been called a lot worse," he said.

She shook her head, in fond exasperation, and headed back to the table.

"So you're telling me you could hit that but you _choose_ not to?" Dex said, watching her walk away.

"Not my type," House shrugged.

He turned back to his drink, then glanced at them a few times, mostly when Cuddy's throaty laugh could be heard from across the bar. Who could possibly be making her laugh? Foreman?

Mercifully, the group finally got up and left.

"Goodbye House!" they all yelled with excessive cheer, a planned joke.

He gave an ironic wave back at them, then ordered another scotch.

A few minutes later, Lisa Cuddy came back to the bar. House noticed her right away because she was moving quickly, nervously. Also, her hair and clothing were slightly wet.

She went back to the table where they had been sitting, looked under it, then looked under her chair. She asked a question of a couple at another table and they both shook their heads, apologetically.

Finally, she headed to the bar.

"Has anyone turned in a set of keys? she asked Dex.

"Sorry, no," he said.

"Shit," she muttered.

"You know, key parties went out in the '70s, Cuddy," House said, smirking at her.

"This isn't funny, House."

"They're probably just at the bottom of your impractically enormous purse," he said.

"I already looked," she said.

"Your pockets?"

"Does it look like I have room for a ring of keys in this outfit?"

He looked her up and down.

"Thankfully, no," he said. Then he added: "Things have been known to get lost in your cleavage. I can excavate, if you'd like."

She glared at him. Sensing she was in no mood for his jokes, he said, "They couldn't have gotten that far. Did you look on the sidewalk?"

"Yes," she said. "It doesn't help that it just started pouring out. My keys probably floated away."

"Wow. You're screwed," he said.

"Apparently," she said. "Luckily, I have an extra set of house keys. . ."

"Under that potted plant next to your door," House said.

"You're terrifying."

"I've been called a lot worse—quite recently, in fact," he said.

She sighed. Pulled out her phone. "Do you know the number of a cab company?" she said to Dex.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," House said, grabbing her arm. "You actually think I'm such an asshole I'm not going to give you a ride home?"

"Do I have to answer that?" she said.

"I'll give you a ride home," he said, patting the bar stool next to him. "But I just ordered this scotch. Have a drink with me."

She laughed.

"I thought you hated drinking with colleagues?" she said.

"Colleagues, plural," House said. "One colleague at a time I can handle. Sit."

######

Gregory House was very good at not kissing Lisa Cuddy. You might even say he was Zen in the art of it. Over the years, there had been many times that he had wanted to kiss her—when her eyes flashed during one of their particularly heated fights; when she was tired and let down her guard and was actually a little vulnerable around him; when she wore that one particular pair of red heels that drove him wild—and he had always restrained himself. But now, after two more drinks at the bar, and after making "a limp for it" to his car, both ducking under his leather jacket, with his arm around her waist, and now, standing at her doorway—she was drenched and laughing and her hair was sticking to her face—he found himself completely helpless before her. He forgot everything he knew about Not Kissing Lisa Cuddy and he dove for her. The kiss was artless, furtive, and too fast for his liking, but my God he wanted more.

"What was that?" she said, genuinely shocked.

"Sorry," he said. "My bad."

She looked at him again, and then this time she was the one who dove for him and they managed to find the key in the potted plant and shove open the door and stagger their way inside.

She was drunk, but not too drunk to realize that this was a bad idea, but House's mouth and hands felt so good and he was already kissing her neck and unbuttoning her shirt and pulling her bra to the side so he could take her breast in his mouth and she was turned on beyond measure, so she wrapped her legs around him and rammed her tongue in his mouth and he carried her to the bedroom like that. (She hadn't been 100 percent sure he could sustain her weight, with his bad leg and all, but he seemed to have abnormal strength in this moment. Later he would call it "the sex version of those mothers who lift cars off their babies.")

Every voice in their heads that was saying "terrible idea" was now been drowned out by the inchoate voice of flesh and sensation and desire.

Afterwards, both sweaty and out of breath, they couldn't help but to share a sneaky smile of accomplishment that said, "man, we were really good at that thing we just did, huh?"

"Damn woman," House said.

"Right back at ya," she said, still catching her breath.

They both laughed and just for a moment House had this fantasy—of working with Cuddy by day and fucking her by night and maybe it would become more than just sex and maybe he could be her actual boyfriend, because was any woman more perfect and sexy and desirable than Lisa Cuddy? And where was it written that they couldn't be together because it felt so right—so, _so_ right—and he knew that she felt it too and they could. . .

"You should probably go," Cuddy said.

He blinked, rudely roused from his reverie.

"That's dumb," he said, reaching for her. "You have no car. It's still parked at Sullivan's."

"I'll have a neighbor drive me," she said, firmly.

He let go, trying not to show that he was hurt.

"Suit yourself," he said, hopping out of bed. He started to look for his clothing, somewhat huffily.

"Don't be mad," she said, watching him.

"Who's mad?" he said. "I didn't want to cuddle. I was just thinking in terms of logistics."

"I'll be fine." Then she wrapped herself tightly in the sheet. Then she said: "House?"

"Yeah?"

"That was both unexpected and a lot of… fun."

Now that the fog of sex had lifted she was already mad at herself for sleeping with him. Keeping things strictly professional with House was an ongoing battle, one that she had clearly lost tonight—in a big way. (Even now, watching him get dressed in the dark—his lean torso, his ropy arm muscles, that wonderful cock of his—she wanted him again—as always. She sometimes felt that Gregory House had been designed somewhere in a lab specifically to turn her on. But rational Lisa Cuddy—ambitious, striving, youngest-female-dean-in-the-country Lisa Cuddy—also knew that House made her lose control. And being in control was very important to her.)

"Yeah," he said mopily. "Fun."

"See you tomorrow?"

He looked at his watch.

"Actually, later today," he said. Then, somewhat coldly, "I'll let myself out."

"Thanks," she said, when he got to the door. "For everything."

"Any time," he said.

######

By the next afternoon, House had already managed to convince himself that all of his romantic yearnings from the night before had just been the sex talking. He always did turn into a big fucking pussy after great sex. Frankly, he just hoped that _she_ wouldn't get too clingy.

He was having this thought, while also conducting a DDx with his team, when he looked up and saw Cuddy in the hallway. His whole body tensed.

"Be right back," he said. "Don't go and solve the case without me."

"We won't," Cameron said.

"I was being ironic," House said.

Once in the hallway, he folded his arms.

"What's up?"

"I found my keys," she said, smiling sheepishly, dangling them in front of him. "They were in the ladies room at Sullivan's."

"Good for you," he said, cautiously.

There was a bit of an awkward pause.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Just dandy," he said.

"I just wanted to make sure things weren't going to get. . .weird between us," she said.

"Not weird at all," he said.

"I thought it was good that we stuck to our 'Have sex once every 20 years schedule'," she cracked. Then she added with a grin: "My place? 2026?"

"It's a date," he said, with a light smile.

He was looking at her, in that penetrating way of his, like he could read her mind. She looked down.

"How's your . . .uh. . .case going?" she asked.

"Not so great. Actually, I should probably get back to it," he said.

"Good idea," she said, nodding. "See you later?"

"Seems probable."

He headed back to the DDx room where, instead of brainstorming, the team was all gaping at him.

"What was that all about?" Cameron said.

"We were discussing the mindblowing sex we had last night," House said. "Either that, or she wanted to remind me my insurance forms are overdue. You guys decide."

"I vote mindblowing sex," Chase said.

"I vote insurance forms," Cameron said.

######

So things went back to normal, which was easier for them than it might be for some other colleagues who had hooked up because they were _always _suppressing sexual desire for each other. And then, three weeks later, there was a knock on House's door.

"Hey, it's me," Cuddy said.

"Coming!" House yelled. He quickly limped into the bathroom, tried to fix his hair, which looked like it had just gone through a wind tunnel, swallowed down some mouthwash, and smelled his arm pits, which seemed okay.

_I knew she couldn't stay away!_ he thought, shocked by how excited he was.

He expected her to be dressed in a sexy way: Maybe a teddy with a trench coat over it and heels, but she was wearing skinny jeans and an oversized sweatshirt.

"Hi," he said, narrowing his eyes.

"Can I come in?"

"Of course."

This whole thing felt off to him—not work-related, but definitely not a seduction either.

She sat down on the couch.

"Drink?" he said.

"No thanks," she said.

He poured himself a scotch and sat across from her.

"What's up?" he asked.

'We have a situation," she said, looking at her hands.

"What kind of situation?"

"I'm pregnant."

_To be continued. . ._


	2. Chapter 2

House's mouth dropped open. He started to talk, but she held up a hand to stop him.

"Before you say anything, let me just go first," she said, boss-style. "First of all, yes I'm sure it's yours. I know you think I'm the Mayor of Slutsville or something, but I'm not. I haven't had sex with anyone other than you in five months."

House began to protest her characterization of his opinion, but she cut him off.

"Also, no I'm not on the pill. It's not like I _planned_ any of this—I think we both know that our little hook-up was about as spontaneous as it gets. But I haven't been on birth control in a while. And by the way, it's not like you couldn't have worn a condom! Birth control is not the sole responsibility of the woman!"

He tried to protest again, but she kept talking:

"You know I was trying to get pregnant. What you may not know is that… I had a miscarriage last year."

His eyes widened.

"Cuddy, I. . ."

"Because of my age and a few other factors, it's hard for me to get pregnant and harder still to stay pregnant. I know you don't want a kid. You've made that extremely clear. At the same time, last year when I was looking for a sperm donor I got the distinct impression that you might've been willing if I'd actually asked—which of course I didn't do. The point is"—she looked down at her hands, which were clenched in her lap. "The point is, I've thought about this long and hard and I want to try to take this baby to term. I don't expect anything of you. In fact, I expect nothing. You can be whatever you want to this child: Acquaintance, friendly uncle, complete stranger, right up to actually playing an active role in his or her life. It's totally up to you. But whatever you think of this situation, I don't care. I know that's not very progressive of me, or maybe even fair, but it is what it is. I'm having this baby. House."

She stopped.

House gaped at her, silently.

She folded her arms.

"Don't you have _anything_ you want to say?" she said.

"I was just making sure you were done," he said. "You are done, aren't you?"

"Yes," she said, slightly sheepishly.

"Did you practice that in front of the mirror?"

"Kind of. . ."

He smiled softly.

"First of all, I'm sorry about the miscarriage. I had no idea."

"Why would you?"

"I seem to recall saying something really horrible to you once about you being a terrible mother. I . . . was being an ass. On purpose. When I'm jonesing for drugs I can be. . ."

"Forget it House. Past history."

They exchanged a look.

"As for you being pregnant now . . . I don't know what to say."

"That's a first."

"It's just a lot to absorb, Cuddy. Am I allowed to be even a little freaked out?"

She swallowed a bit.

"Yes," she said. Then she gave a rueful smile: "I know I was."

"So can I think about it?"

"Of course."

"I'll tell you tomorrow, okay?"

"No rush," she said. "We have time. Well, eight months to be exact."

"Wow," he said, scratching his head. "Plot twist, huh?"

"Big one," she said.

Then she stood up.

"I'm going to get going," she said, chuckling ironically. "I just thought I'd drop this little bombshell on you and leave."

He walked her to the door.

"And House?" she said.

"Yeah?"

"I'm not telling anyone about this. Not at least until the second trimester. So please keep it just between us."

"Of course," he said.

"Not even Wilson."

"Not even Wilson."

Then a though crossed her mind.

"He doesn't know we had sex, does he?" she asked, aghast.

"No!" House said, indignantly. (One of the great paradoxes of Gregory House: He was a rule breaker in all things except for when it came to chivalry and loyalty. In those things, he was a veritable puritan.)

"Okay, good. Keep it that way."

"I intend to," House said. Then he cocked his head: "And Cuddy? If this is what you really want then. . .congratulations."

She smiled.

"I think it is," she said. "Thanks House."  
#####

The minute she left, House reached into his pocket, pulled out a bottle of Vicodin and swallowed two pills, quickly.

Then he finished his scotch and poured himself another glass.

"Fuck me," he said under his breath.

He paced his apartment, listlessly, until his leg started to hurt. Then he found an old tennis ball in the closet and tossed it against the wall until his neighbor complained.

His head was spinning. He sat at the kitchen table, tried to breathe, to clear his head, but he felt like he could actually feel the blood coursing around in his skull.

Finally, he picked up the phone.

"I have a problem," he told Wilson.

"Well that's a shock."

"And I need your advice."

"Okay, that is sort of a shock."

"Only, I can't tell you what the problem is."

"That makes zero sense, House."

"It's a decision I have to make. It's extremely important. Lives are literally hanging in the balance—and I have no fucking clue what to do."

"House, you're going to have to be a little more specific than that."

"I can't."

Wilson chuckled.

"Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

"Forget it," House said, starting to hang up. "This was a bad idea."

"Wait!" Wilson said. Then he thought it over: "I know when I have a hard decision to make it sometimes helps to write a list of pros and cons."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"It can help consolidate your own opinions on a subject. I'm just saying it's helped me in the past."

"Useless as always, Wilson," House said, hanging up.

He sat there for a second with his head in his hands. Then he grabbed a piece of paper and pen from the desk.

On the top he wrote: "Baby." Then he drew a line down the middle of the page. On the left side he wrote: "Pros" and on the right side he wrote "Cons."

Under "cons":

1. Don't like babies.

2. Crying. Shitting. No sleep.

3. People constantly cooing in my vicinity. I hate cooing.

4. Baby showers: The scourge of mankind.

5. I have a shitty father. Odds are, I will be a shitty father, too.

6. I'm old enough to be this kid's grandfather.

7. Old guys at the playground are the worst.

8. Who wants a father with a fucking limp?

9. No peace and quiet.

10. Kids are expensive as hell.

11. They destroy nice things.

12. I have zero patience.

13. I'm an addict.

He stared at that last entry for a minute, underlined it twice, then attempted to find some "pros":

1. Will possibly make Cuddy happy.

2. Biological curiosity: What would our baby be like?

He tapped his pen against the desk, then went back to the "Con" side. By the time he was finished, he had 85 cons and 2 pros. He sighed and had another drink.

#######

House found Cuddy the next day in the clinic, where she was doing a consult on a patient.

"I made my decision," he said to her, jangling his leg nervously.

She looked at him.

"I'm in the middle of something. Can I meet you in my office in five minutes?"

"Make it two," he said, limping away.

When she arrived, he was already sitting in the chair across from her desk.

"This time I need you to let me talk, okay?" he said.

"Okay."

"I know that I'm an addict and a jerk and not anyone's idea of what a father should look like." He looked at her, to see if she agreed. But her face was inscrutable. "But the thing is. . ." he gripped his cane. "The thing is, Cuddy. I can love this kid. I know I can. Because it's going to be my baby, too. I made it. Well, uh, helped make it. And I want to be involved in its life. As much as you'll let me. I want to change the diapers and burp it and have photos of the damn thing in my wallet. If you'll let me, I want be its father."

He folded his arms, somewhat defensively.

Cuddy's mouth dropped open

"Are you trying to _sell_ yourself to me?" she said.

He laughed, in a self-deprecating sort of way.

"I guess I am."

"You know what you're saying, House?"

"I do."

"Life as you know it is going to radically change."

"I'm prepared for that."

"And you'll have to spend a lot more time with me," she chuckled.

"I'm …prepared for that, too," he said.

"Then I …accept," she said.

"Really?" he said, genuinely shocked.

"Of course," she said, smiling. "This is what I was hoping you would say all along. I just didn't want to pressure you. History tells me, you don't respond well to pressure."

"But you know I suck at all that. . .emotional stuff. I'm not exactly a hugger."

"There are all different ways to be a good parent," she countered. "And besides, the Gregory House I know is good at everything he puts his mind too." Then she gave a slightly dirty smile. "And yes, I'm thinking about what you think I'm thinking about."

He smiled back at her, pleased.

"You always did have an inordinately high opinion of me," he said.

"Au contraire. I've always seen you quite clearly," she said.

They contemplated each other. Then Cuddy said: "And to get our journey into _truly_ uncharted territory off on the right foot, I'm going to hug you now. Non-negotiable."

"If you must," he said mirthfully.

"I must."

She walked up to him, put her arms around him, buried her head in the crook of his neck, and he thought: _I could get used to this_.

That was when there was the sound of a throat being cleared.

They disentangled, like they had been caught doing something shameful.

It was Cameron.

"We, uh, got the result of those tests," she said sheepishly.

The awkwardness of Cameron witnessing their hug clearly had to be addressed.

"Cuddy's trying a new office policy," House said. "Hugs, not drugs." He pulled a bottle of Vicodin out of his pocket and dramatically tossed a pill in his mouth. "Didn't work." Then he gave Cuddy an apologetic look. She nodded understandingly.

He followed Cameron back out in the hallway.

"Gimme," he said, thrusting out his hand for the test results.

"Oh noooo," Cameron said, chuckling. "First you're going to tell me why you and Dr. Cuddy were hugging. Because _that _was unprecedented."

"Dr. Cuddy just received some, uh, news," House said.

"She did? What kind of news?"

House gestured for Cameron to lean in close, so he could whisper in her ear. Slightly excited to be sharing a secret with him, she leaned in expectantly.

"She just found out that it's NONE OF YOUR GOD DAMN BUSINESS!" he shouted.

"Ouch!" she said, withdrawing and rubbing her ear. "Okay, okay. I get the message."

"Just trying to be both loud _and_ clear."  
#######

"You'll never guess what I saw today," Cameron said to Chase, at lunch.

"The Loch Ness Monster?" he offered.

"Surprisingly close. House hugging Cuddy."

"_Gregory_ House?"

"I know, right?"

"Huh."

"_Huh?_ That's all you can say. What do you think it means?"

"I think he's banging her," Chase said, munching on his sandwich. "He pretty much told us so himself."

"He was joking."

"Or pretending to joke to deflect from the fact that he's. . .banging her."

Cameron wrinkled her nose.

"That doesn't sound like House at all."

Chase shrugged.

"If you say so."

"Besides, this wasn't a sex hug. It was …warm."

"People having sex can feel warmly toward each other," he said, sulkily.

"I know. I'm just saying. Something's up with those two and I'm going to get to the bottom of it."

######

A few days later, House found Cuddy emerging from the ladies room on the third floor, looking a little green around the gills.

"I hope you just vomited," he said. "Because otherwise, you need a new shade of foundation."

"I just puked my guts out," she assured him, wearily.

He smiled. "It's a good sign. Means your hormones are doing what they're supposed to be doing."

"Tell that to my poor stomach."

"Next time you feel the need to vomit, page me," he cracked. "I always like to see you on your knees."

"Very funny, House," she said.

But the next day, he was in her office brandishing a large shopping bag.

"What's that?" she said, wrinkling her nose.

"A very special Cuddy Feels Cruddy care kit," he said. He began pulling items out of the bag: Vitamin B-6, brewer's yeast, a box of peppermint tea, ginger chews, two 2-liter bottles of water, a DVD copy of _The Notebook _("for when you're feeling extra hormonal"), and a set of knee pads.

She laughed when he got to the knee pads.

"You're too much," she said.

Several nights later, he called her.

"Hey!" she said, surprised to be hearing from him.

"Just checkin' in," he said. "You need anything? Pickles? Sardines? Pickled sardines?"

"I'm good," she said.

"You sure? You're six weeks pregnant. You must be craving something."

"Actually. . .pickles sound good," she admitted.

"You're such a cliché," he said.

"But not regular pickles, those little French ones they serve with pate? Cornichon?"

"You're an expensive cliché," he said, writing it down. "What else?"

"There's this gelato I like? Salted caramel."

"What brand?"

"I don't know. The container is black."

"You'd make a lousy detective. What else?"

"If they have any of those wasabi peas? The crunchy ones they serve at bars?"

"Where do you even buy this shit?"

"The gourmet grocer," she said.

"Naturally. What else?"

"A martini, extra dry, with 3 olives," she sighed.

"Sorry, mama. But I'll get the other stuff." And he hung up.

He was at her place, about an hour later.

When she opened the door, he was leaning against the doorframe, sexily, holding a paper bag.

"Why do I feel like you're my drug dealer?" she laughed.

He looked impossibly good, in a black tee-shirt, his motorcycle jacket and snug jeans. (For her part, she was dressed in tee-shirt and yoga pants. She wasn't showing at all yet—still looked as fit and slender as ever.)

"Did I get the right gelato?" he asked, when she pulled out the ice cream.

"This is the stuff," she said. "You want some?"

"It's all you."

"Drink? Just because I'm dry doesn't mean you have to be."

"Yeah?" he said, looking at his watch. It was 9 o clock. "You sure?"

"Come on in."

She poured him a glass of scotch and opened up the pint of ice cream. She sat next to him on the couch and began eating from the pint directly with a spoon. He watched her, amused.

"You've got to try this, it's delicious."

She fed him with her own spoon—and as he licked the ice cream from the spoon, the gesture suddenly felt intimate, flirty.

He raised his eyebrows at her.

"That's actually pretty good," he said. Then he playfully grabbed the pint from her, shoved a giant spoonful in his mouth.

"Hey! You can't take food from a pregnant lady! That's just mean."

"Awww, poor baby," he said. He fed her a spoonful. She licked the gelato slowly, in such a sexy way he actually got a little aroused.

"So what else are you craving, Cuddy?" he asked, leaning in, hopefully.

"What did you have in mind?" she said.

"This," he said.

And he kissed her. Her lips tasted like salted caramel gelato and the tantalizing promise of sex.

"A woman could crave that, too," she said, kissing him back, hard.

House quickly put down the ice cream. They fell back onto the couch and she immediately unsnapped his pants. Her eagerness only served to make him more hot for her. In moments, he was inside her, grabbing her ass, kissing her throat, her mouth, her breasts, moaning her name, as they rocked together on the couch.

Afterward, he held her in his arms, stroking her hair. "I swear, I wasn't planning for that to happen," he said. "This wasn't my master plan: Bring you pickles, get laid."

"It's okay," she said, nuzzling him a bit. "I think having sex with the father of your unborn child is well within the rules."

"So you wanna do it again?" he said.

######

He came over a couple of days later, ostensibly to watch _The Notebook_, but Cuddy kept inching closer and closer to him on the couch, until she was practically in his lap and then he was rubbing her back and then the back rubs turned to neck rubs which turned to boob rubs and then she faced him and straddled him and bit his lower lip hard and then they were going at it again—which, of course, was the only reason he had ever agreed to watch _The Notebook_ in the first place.

The next time he came over, she showed him the room she was going to turn into the nursery.

"I think I'm going to paint it yellow," she said.

"I'm sure there will be more than enough yellow in this room," he cracked.

"Not urine yellow! Cheery yellow. I want to get the room painted sooner rather than later and yellow is gender neutral."

"How bout black? That's gender neutral. We could create an awesome little goth baby."

"Very funny," she said. Then she smiled at him: "Tell the truth: would you prefer a boy or a girl?"

"Don't care."

"Liar! Of course you care."

"I just want the little ankle-biter to have ten fingers and ten toes. And not have one of those precious names, like Atticus or Delilah or Otto."

"I was hoping we'd name the baby after my father. Is that okay?"

"Of course," he said. "What was his name?"

"Axl," she said.

"_Axl_? Like Axl Rose?"

She burst out laughing.

"I'm just messing with you. It was David."

"You little minx," he said, and laughing, he pinned her up against the wall and began kissing her.

That night, they had sex twice—once in the future nursery, not yet painted yellow, and once in the bedroom. After, House climbed out of bed and began searching for his clothing in the dark.

"Where are you going?" she whispered, groggily.

"Home?" he said, cautiously.

"Why don't you stay?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. My feet are cold. Come warm me up."

And he hopped back into bed gratefully.

#####

They didn't see each other for a few days, which was normal. It's not like they had an actual schedule or had even put a name on what they were: Not quite boyfriend and girlfriend. Co-parents with benefits?

But House had found himself thinking about Cuddy and the baby all day, so he called her.

"I've decided I'd prefer a girl," he said, when she answered the phone.

"House. . ."

"Because, let's face it, girls tend to be closer to their mothers which can only be a good thing as far as our little spawn is concerned. . ."

"House. . . "

"And if she looks like you, all the better. We've definitely got a beauty and the beast situation here. . ."

"HOUSE!"

He suddenly realized that her voice sounded agitated.

"What?"

"I lost the baby." 

_To be continued . . ._

p.s. Sooo sorry about this guys. This was my plot idea all along. If you want to read a happy story where House and Cuddy DO have a baby, I recommend Special Delivery (S2) or First Comes Love (S7).


	3. Chapter 3

**Just want to take this moment to thank everyone who reads and supports my fics, especially those of you who take the time to leave comments or send me notes on Twitter. You guys truly keep me going. Lobe to you all.-atd**

"You what?" House said, even though he had heard her perfectly.

"I lost the baby."

He swallowed hard, but found he couldn't make any saliva.

"When?"

"Two nights ago."

He slumped into a chair by the phone.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I'm telling you now."

"Are you. . .okay?"

"What do you think?"

"I'm coming over," he said. And he hung up before he could hear her say, "Please don't."

#####

He banged on her door. She answered, looking pale and somewhat birdlike in an oversized sweatshirt that seemed to swallow her whole. Her hair was pulled back and she was wearing no makeup. The first time, he noticed a tiny smattering of freckles across her nose.

As soon as he saw her, he realized he didn't have a clue what to say.

"Hi," he said, feeling like an idiot.

"Hi," she wearily.

"Can I come in?"

"I don't think so, House. I'm really tired."

This was unexpected. He looked down, fiddled with his cane.

"Cuddy, I'm so sorry," he said, finally.

"I am, too."

"Can you at least tell me what happened?"

It was clearly the wrong question.

"What happened? You know what happens when a woman miscarries, House. There was a lot of blood. And tissue. It's like giving birth except for at the end there's …death instead of life."

He stared at her, shocked.

"I'm. . .I didn't mean. . .I just don't know what to say."

"There's nothing to say. We both knew this could happen. And now it did."

"But why didn't you call me? I could've. . ."

"Could've what, House?"

He looked down.

"I don't know. I could've . . .been there for you," he muttered.

"I'm fine, House. Julia drove me to the hospital. I'm on some good meds and I'm feeling better. I should be back at work in a couple of days."

"And that's it?"

"What else is there?" she said.

"I don't know. You wanna. . .finish watching _The Notebook_?" he asked, lamely.

She laughed, mirthlessly.

"No House. I don't want to finish watching _The Notebook_. I want to be alone. You of all people should understand that."

"I'm just not sure that's a good idea," he said.

"It's not your call to make," she said. And she literally closed the door in his face.

########

She wasn't at work the next day and House moved around the hospital like a zombie, not talking to anyone, not even making eye contact. He downed half a bottle of Vicodin, but it didn't make a dent.

He felt like he wanted to scream, just to feel something, just to release some of his bottled up anger. But you couldn't go around screaming in hospitals, so he got into his car, drove as far away as possible, parked along the side of the road and screamed at the top of his lungs. It felt good, if only briefly, so he did it again. Then he punched the steering wheel so hard the horn sounded and then he hit the horn again, laid on it for an absurdly long time—just a mad man on the side of the road screaming and honking his horn— and then he drove back to the office, and tried to go about his day.

He kept expecting her to call, but she didn't. So he called her that night.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"A little," she said.

"Do you want me to come over?"

"No…I'm tired. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay. . ." He hesitated: "Cuddy, did I do something wrong here?"

"No, House. Not everything is about you."

And she hung up.

######

She was back at the work the next day, looking polished and impeccable, like nothing had gone wrong.

He was on his way to go see her (he had made up some lame excuse—a request for a liver biopsy that his patient didn't even necessarily need) when he noticed her leave her office and head up toward the nursery.

"Shit," he muttered.

He trailed her a bit, keeping his distance as he watched her staring at the newborns—tucked into their blue and pink blankets, with their little grandma-knit beanies, yawning and stretching and clenching their tiny fists and toes—behind the glass.

"Walk away, Cuddy," House urged, under his breath.

A young father came up to the window, grinning in a tired, giddy way and pointed out his baby to Cuddy. She smiled at first and then her face began to crumble and, before she lost it, she excused herself and darted into an unoccupied exam room.

House followed her.

When he opened the heavy door, she was sitting on the exam table, hugging her knees, weeping.

Seeing her like that, he felt physically sick, an actual lurching pain in his own gut.

He kept thinking: _What would Wilson do_? Wilson would console her. Wilson would hug her and tell her that everything was going to be okay. And that was exactly what House wanted to do, so badly. But it was more than that: He wanted to _be _hugged, by her. Instead, he stood there, stiffly, unable to will himself to act.

She looked up, saw him, and hastily wiped her eyes.

"Did you follow me?" she said sharply.

"No! I just happened to be in the nursery and . . ." He looked at his feet. "Yes, I followed you."

"Well stop it!"

"I'm sorry."

He had never felt so useless in his entire life.

"Maybe you came back to the hospital too soon?" he offered. "Maybe you should take a few more days to. . ."

"I'm fine, House. I just needed a moment. I'm human. I cried. I know it's hard for you to relate."

He gulped.

"Maybe it isn't wise for you to be hanging around the nursery. . ."

"Why not? They're the only babies I'm ever going to get near, apparently," she said, brushing past him into the hall.

"Cuddy!" he called after her.

But she kept walking, briskly, in such a way that a crippled man could never catch up.

####

House was in a bad mood, so therefore Cameron was in a good mood.

House had been disgustingly happy these past few weeks—whistling in his office, encouraging the team's theories, not once calling them a pack of useless troglodytes—almost to the point of being unrecognizable. She knew it had something to do with Cuddy, and not just because of Chase's theory. She had witnessed the hug herself, not to mention their somewhat intimate tête-à-tête in the hall.

But now his mood was darker than ever. Even in his worst moments, House was an entertaining asshole, a pugilist with a blisteringly funny left hook. These past few days he had just been surly, uncommunicative, short-tempered, and he was rubbing his leg a lot, which Cameron knew was a sign of emotional distress as much as physical.

So whatever that _thing_ was between House and Cuddy, it was clearly over. (Cuddy had been off work for a few days, too—coincidence?—and now she was roaming the halls of the hospital gloomily, looking like she had just come from a funeral herself.)

Cameron had steered clear of House for a few days—she wasn't _that_ big of a masochist—but she needed to check on whether or not they were going forward with the liver biopsy. Besides, he could obviously use some consoling. An affair with Cuddy—however ill-advised, however brief—meant he was at least _open _to the possibility of dating a coworker. . .

He was sitting at his desk, kind of staring into space—not even in that active way where you could actually see him thinking, just kind of zoning out—when she approached him.

"Hey," she said.

She had startled him.

"What?" he barked.

"I, um . . . did Cuddy give her approval for the liver biopsy?"

"I didn't ask."

"But you were supposed to ask her yesterday!"

"I know. I . . something came up and I forgot."

"You _forgot_?"

"Skip the biopsy; he doesn't really need it."

She folded her arms and contemplated him.

"Are you okay?"

"Do I seem okay?"

"Actually no."

"So you already knew the answer. Why ask?"

"I just. . .is there anything I can do to help?"

"I can think of one thing."

"You mean leave you alone," she said, getting it.

"It's like you can read my mind!"

"House, you don't have to handle everything by yourself, you know. You have friends."

"You're referring to yourself, I assume."

"Yes."

"You're not my friend Cameron. You're my employee. See the difference?"

"I can be both."

"And I can be a doctor and an astronaut. But I'm not. Now get out of my office, Cameron."

"No!" she said, petulantly.

He gave her a lethal look, then bolted up from his chair.

"If you don't leave, I will," he said, brushing past her as he limped by.

He had made it halfway down the hall, when he heard footsteps gaining on him.

He turned, expecting Cameron, but it was that other annoying woman in his life: James Wilson.

"Where are you rushing off to?" Wilson said.

"It's double coupon day at the SuperMart," House said. "I don't want to be late."

"Wait up," Wilson said, catching up with him easily.

House sighed.

"What's up with you?" Wilson said.

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" House snapped.

"Gee, I don't know, House. Maybe because you've operating on the world's shortest fuse for the past few days and its affecting everyone around you."

"Then here's a bright idea. Stay away from me."

"House, I don't want to stay away from you. I want to figure out what's bothering you and help."

"Nothing is bothering me!" he shouted loudly, more loudly than he had intended.

"Does this have anything to do with that life or death decision you were talking about last month?"

For a second, House seemed surprised. Then he said: "No….that was just a hypothetical."

"It obviously wasn't a hypothetical and its obviously eating away at you."

"I'm fine!"

"You're clearly not fine!"

"Why can't everyone just leave me the fuck alone!"

In a quick move, House turned and slammed Wilson against the wall. He had his hand around his friend's throat, nearly choking him.

"House," Wilson squeaked. "I can't breathe."

House looked down at his hand, in horror, then let go.

Then he limped away in a huff.

This time, Wilson was smart enough not to follow him.

######

"What the hell is going on with House?" Wilson said to Cuddy.

"What do you mean?" she said, only half-looking up from her work.

"I mean. He's been out of his mind these last few days. He just tried to choke me in the hall. You can still see his finger marks on my neck!" He pointed pitifully, but Cuddy couldn't see anything.

"That's. . .not like House," she said.

"That's an understatement. In all our years of friendship, he has never laid a hand on me. Not once. I know this has something to do with this life or death decision he was talking about a few weeks ago."

Now he fully had her attention.

"What?"

"He called me last month. Was being very mysterious. Said he had a huge decision to make and it was a matter of life and death."

"And that was all he said?"

"Yeah."

"What did you tell him to do?"

"I told him to make a list of pros and cons and go with his instinct."

"Huh. . ."

"So you know nothing about this?"

"Not a thing."

Wilson peered at her. Then he narrowed his eyes.

"I don't believe you. . ." he said.

"What?"

"Between the two of us, House tells us everything. If I don't know, you must."

"I know nothing."

He frowned.

"Come to think of it, you've been depressed, too," he said.

"I have not!"

"Of course you have. I'm not blind." He folded his arms. "Spill it: What happened between you two?"

"Nothing!" she said, defensively. Then, more evenly: "I swear."

"Cuddy, for everyone's sake, make up with him, okay? Because he is operating on nuclear levels of toxicity. And you're not exactly Miss Congeniality yourself."

She was about to protest, but then thought better of it.

"I'll try," she said.

"Good," he said. "Both me and my jugular thank you."

#####

House was slumped at the bar at Sullivan's that night, when Dex handed him a fresh scotch.

"I didn't order that," he said.

"I know," Dex said. "She did."

And he pointed to Cuddy, who had been sitting in a dark corner and was now approaching him.

"May I?" she said, gesturing to the bar stool next to him.

"Of course," he said, shocked.

"Martini, dry, three olives," she said. Then she gave a sad smile: "Thank God for small favors."

"How'd you know how to find me?" House said.

"I hired a private detective," she said. "Either that, or you're here four nights a week."

He shrugged, in a "good point" sort of way.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Like shit," she said. "You?"

"Same," he said, smiling sadly.

"House, I owe you an apology."

"Actually, you don't owe me anything."

"Of course I do," she said. "I was upset. More than that, I felt like a failure. I felt like I. . .let you down."

"Cuddy, that's absurd. It's biology. Biology doesn't let people down."

"I know. It wasn't rational. But. . .I felt humiliated. Like I somehow wasn't a whole woman."

"Believe me, Cuddy. You're a whole woman. You're the wholest woman I know."

She gave a tiny laugh.

"Thank you," she said. "I think."

He peered at her out of the corner of his eye.

"You shut me out," he said sadly.

"I know. I think I needed to grieve on my own. "

"But . . .why?"

"I don't know, House. In those moments when I'm feeling most fragile, I guess I don't think. . .Greg House is just what I need right now."

He nodded.

"That makes sense," he said.

She eyed him.

"But it wasn't fair. I never gave you a chance to grieve with me."

"I don't have the best track record for consoling people," he admitted. "I just stood there and watched you cry yesterday. Like a schmuck."

"That was my fault. I didn't let you in. I didn't want you to comfort me." She reached over and took his hand. "But it was wrong of me. It was your baby, too. Your loss, too."

He had no idea how much he had needed to hear those exact words. To feel her hand on his. His eyes unexpectedly welled with tears.

"Thanks," he said, taking a big gulp of his drink.

She let him collect himself before she continued.

"I left you all alone in this and for that I'm sorry. At least I had Julia to talk to. I didn't even let you unload on Wilson."

"Actually, I did kind of unload on him," House said guiltily. "Just not quite in the way you mean."

"Yeah, he kind of told me about that."

"I owe that guy an apology."

She nodded. "He'll forgive you. He wants you to be happy. And. .. so do I. You've been nothing but a perfect boyfriend to me these last few weeks," she said. "Honestly, I couldn't have asked for anything more."

"_Boyfriend_?" he said, raising his eyebrows.

She looked down at the bar. "Boyfriend. Partner. Co-parent. Whatever we were to each other."

"Boyfriend works," he said, not able to suppress a tiny smile.

"I think partly I was embarrassed by how giddy I allowed myself to be. I knew I was high risk for a miscarriage," she said. "But I allowed myself to dream, to pretend that wasn't a real possibility. I think I liked playing house with you."

Then they said, in unison: "So to speak."

"I liked playing house with you, too," he said.

"I so wish it had worked out differently," she said.

"We can try again," he said, without even quite realizing what he was saying.

"We can try to accidentally get me knocked up again?" she teased.

"Yeah, but, you know, on purpose this time."

"I don't know, House. We got swept up, carried away with this. . .fantasy."

"But it was a good fantasy."

"I know," she said. "It really was."

And she put her head on his shoulder.

That extra bit of contact emboldened him to do what he'd wanted to do for days. He took her in his arms, pulled her close. When her back began shaking and his neck got wet with her tears, he felt a strange surge of accomplishment. She was taking comfort—in him. He kissed the top of her head.

"Shhh," he said. "I'm here."

Finally, they separated. Dex, who had a bartender's instinct for steering clear of important conversations, loped back over.

"Another round?" he asked.

Cuddy looked at House.

"Let's get out of here," he said, cocking his head toward the door.

"Good idea," she said.

"Your place?"

She looked down. "I can't. . .um, you know… I mean, the doctors said that I shouldn't. . ."

"I don't mind," he said. "We can just cuddle."  
#######

When she woke up, his arms were still around her.

She realized that she had been a fool. She had been so afraid of being hurt by him, she neglected to notice that she was the one who had been pushing him away, this whole time.

She looked at the clock. 7 am.

She tried to wriggle out of his arms without waking him up.

"Morning," he said, sleepily.

"Shhhh," she said. "Go back to bed. I have to be at work by 8:30. You don't."

"I'll go with you," he said, stretching.

"Yeah?" she said. "You'll give your team a heart attack."

"It's good to keep them guessing," he said, climbing out of bed. The he looked down at his pajama bottoms and gave a sheepish shrug: "Sorry bout that. Touching you without _touching_ you has been a challenge."

"You've been rising to all sorts of challenges lately," she said.

Then they said, in unison: "So to speak." And laughed.

They got dressed, drank coffee, and drove to work together. And of course, when they got to the garage, they bumped right smack into Cameron.

"Morning," they all said nervously.

There was no getting past the awkwardness and peculiarity of the situation. For one thing, even if Cameron hadn't seen them actually driving together, House's car was nowhere in sight. Also, it was 8:30, approximately two and a half hours earlier than House usually rolled in to work.

House looked at Cuddy, then back at Cameron. Then he took Cuddy's hand and led her to the elevator.

THE END


End file.
